


for destruction ice is also great and would suffice (but not today)

by cywscross



Series: December Fanfic Challenge [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, DECFANFIC, Fluff, Future Fic, Hunters, Hurt Stiles, Language, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>(Day Eighteen - Snowed in / Blizzard)</em> </p><p>It’s at least fifteen below, the snow is falling thicker than ever, and bullets are whizzing through the air as the hunters on their tail close in around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for destruction ice is also great and would suffice (but not today)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**

 

It’s at least fifteen below, the snow is falling thicker than ever, and bullets are whizzing through the air as the hunters on their tail close in around them. The only bright side to this cat-and-mouse situation is the fact that both parties are hampered by the knee-deep snow coating the forest floor.

 

“Hurry up!” Peter growls, not daring to release his iron grip on Stiles’ arm as they make their way back to civilization as fast as possible. The boy’s already lagging from both the weather _and_ the twenty minutes that the two of them have spent trying to shake off their pursuers, and all things considered, Stiles has kept up admirably, but right now, that sentiment is worthless considering the fact that they're still very much in danger of dying a horrible death.

 

Hunters. If Peter thought the notion was even remotely plausible, he’d kill every last one of them.

 

“The next time Scott asks me for a favour ’cause he wants to suck face with Kira,” Stiles gasps out, doing his utmost to not stumble as he scrambles after Peter. “Remind me not to do it, ’kay?”

 

Peter would snort if he isn’t distracted with the task of hauling Stiles and himself behind a tree. Bark flies as three bullets slam into the trunk.

 

“I _did_ remind you,” Peter retorts as they take off at a high-step run once more. “But you took over Scott’s patrol anyway, and roped me into it too.”

 

“You didn't have to come!” Stiles snipes back, tripping over a hidden tree root before Peter yanks him upright again.

 

“I'm so sorry,” Peter sneers back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Next time, I’ll tell Scott to take a hike – like _you should have_ – and leave you to fend for yourself against half a dozen hunters.”

 

This argument is doing no favours for his usually meticulously controlled temper. Being chased like vulnerable quarry isn’t helping his mood either.

 

Another shot wings its way past them, and Peter hisses when it slices through his coat and grazes his skin.

 

Wolfsbane. Fantastic.

 

He feels resistance from Stiles, and it makes him crane his head around to pin the boy with a glacial glare. “What are you doing? Keep moving!”

 

“We should split up!” Stiles shouts back over the shriek of ice and wind. There’s a quaver in his voice that he can’t quite suppress entirely, but the rest of him is all stubborn determination. “They’re hunters! If it’s just me they catch, I don’t- I don’t think they’ll kill me. But if they catch you, you’ll be dead before you can say ‘parley’. So we should split up; you go on ahead and get help-”

 

“First of all, this isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean; there’s no such thing as parley, and second, no,” Peter bites out with finality, and the flatness in his voice would be more than enough for anyone else to drop the issue. Not Stiles though. Of course not.

 

“You- Peter, I’m just slowing you down!” Stiles yells, frustration colouring his words. “At this rate, they’ll catch us both-”

 

“I said no!” Peter snaps more harshly this time, not sparing Stiles another glance as he ups his speed through the worsening snowstorm, all but dragging Stiles after him now, and not just because the boy is digging in his heels. It’s true that Peter would be able to go faster without a human in tow but he isn’t about to leave Stiles behind, one – because he doubts that this newest batch of hunters will stoop to showing mercy to a human member of a wolf pack, and two – because Peter doesn't need Scott attempting to slash his throat out should he actually go through with abandoning the idiot Alpha’s best friend in favour of saving his own skin.

 

Also three – the world would be an infinitely duller place without Stiles in it, although Peter isn’t about to admit that out loud.

 

The shouts behind them – though muffled by the blizzard – grows louder as they draw closer, and Peter’s senses prickle just in time for him to push Stiles to the left while he himself dives to the right, narrowly dodging the hail of bullets that rain down where they were positioned not two seconds ago.

 

“Run!” Peter roars through a mouthful of elongating fangs even as Stiles staggers to his feet, looking back for a glimpse of the hunters. “Stiles, run!”

 

One hunter bursts out from behind a copse of trees, movements hindered by the storm, and Peter’s on him before the man can aim his gun, tearing out his throat without reservation. The time for playing nice has long since passed, and Scott will just have to deal with the body count. Between leaving the hunters alive even when they break the Code – as is McCall Pack policy, much to Peter’s soul-deep disgust – and returning with a breathing Stiles, surely Scott will prefer the latter. If he doesn't, Peter may be tempted – more tempted than usual – to tear _his_ throat out too.

 

Another two melt out of the flurry of white all around them, one hurling a knife at Peter just as Peter lets the corpse in his hands slump to the ground. He manages to sidestep it before springing at the closest hunter, sinking his claws deep into the man’s gut before bodily tossing him into his partner and sending both of them tumbling to the ground.

 

Peter doesn't have time to make sure they _stay_ down when someone else takes a shot at him, close enough that if he didn’t roll out of the way when he did, it would mostly likely have taken his head off.

 

He’s on his feet again within the next moment, partially wolfed out as he scans his surroundings. He hates fighting in these conditions; he can barely see anything through the blizzard around him, never mind smell anything-

 

Something moves in his peripheral vision, and he snarls when another knife catches him in the shoulder. He yanks it out and considers himself very, very lucky that this one isn’t coated in wolfsbane. He throws the knife back before twisting out of the way of two more bullets, and then he flinches in reflex when a shot is fired from behind him, but nothing hurts, and he watches instead as it slams into the hunter he’s currently facing, ripping the woman’s throat open and leaving her to bleed out through the gaping wound as she crumples face first into the snow.

 

Peter whirls around. He can’t really say he’s surprised when he finds Stiles still standing there instead of running away like any other sane human, one of the fallen hunters’ guns levelled at the latest dead hunter. His mouth is set in a grim line, and his face is bleached almost white with the chill, but his hands are steady, and the feral steely glint in his eyes makes Peter wish all over again that the boy agreed when Peter offered him the Bite.

 

But that’s neither here nor there at the moment, especially when one of the hunters Peter knocked down earlier leaps to his feet with a dagger and a cry of “Die, you monster!”, hatred twisting his features into an ugly mask.

 

Peter evades the blade, forces the offending arm back at an awkward angle, and ruthlessly wrenches it clean out of its socket. A clawed hand at the man’s throat severs both vocal cords and life, and the hunter’s scream is abruptly cut off with a wet gurgle, leaving nothing but the wail of rampant nature around them.

 

One more shot rings out from Stiles’ direction, and Peter wheels around again to see a fifth hunter – dressed in white in an attempt to blend in with his surroundings – topple out of the lower branches of a nearby tree, blood leaking sluggishly from a bullet to the brain.

 

“Is- Is that th’last one?” Stiles asks breathlessly as he makes his way over to Peter’s side, and Peter glances at him sharply when he hears the boy’s words slur a little. One look at the blue tinge sneaking into Stiles’ lips tells Peter that it’s high time they get somewhere warm. Scott should never have sent Stiles out here in this weather. Peter should've put his foot down. Stiles should learn his limits.

 

None of that helps either of them right now.

 

“There should be one more,” Peter mutters, fangs receding so that his words aren’t as garbled. He surveys the area again. It’s practically become a complete whiteout around them. “You should've run.”

 

“Like _you_ should've run?” Stiles snarks back, moving to stand behind Peter to cover his back. “Nobody likes a hypocrite, Peter.”

 

Peter has to tamp down on the temporarily overwhelming urge to physically shake some sense into the boy. It probably wouldn't work anyway.

 

“M’be th’last guy hung back,” Stiles suggests, and the drag in his words is more noticeable. “Or couldn’ keep- keep up.”

 

Peter doubts that – since when have any of them ever been that lucky? – but it’s not logical to stay in one spot either way.

 

“Alright, come on,” His hands are streaked with blood, and normally, he wouldn't let that stop him from latching onto Stiles again to tow the boy along, but there’s still a threat out there, and he’d rather have both hands free just in case, so he simply nudges at Stiles to get him moving.

 

“Uh, Peter?”

 

Peter squints through the storm, trying to make out shapes. “What?”

 

“Which- Which way’s home?”

 

Peter inwardly frowns, turning to stare at Stiles for a moment before lifting his gaze again to scrutinize their surroundings. Their very white surroundings. White on all sides.

 

Oh this is just not his day.

 

Peter quickly takes in the positions of the bodies around them. The corpses – and even the splashes of crimson staining the snow – are rapidly disappearing under a fresh layer of snowfall, but he didn't fling them around too much so the town should be...

 

“That way,” Peter gestures to their left, and he can tell that the way Stiles doesn't question him – only nods once mutely, huddles deeper into his coat, and heads off in their chosen route – is less out of blind trust and more out of a desire to get out of the cold as soon as possible.

 

Peter is of the same opinion. Even he’s starting to feel a little chilled in this weather.

 

They don’t make it a dozen steps.

 

Something – maybe nothing in particular – makes Stiles turn back, shivering visibly now, lips parting to speak, and then his gaze slides past Peter, flicking to some point over his shoulder, and suddenly, his eyes go wide with alarm and a touch of horror, and Peter is already reacting, already spinning around, already unsheathing his claws, but even as he does all that, he knows it will be too late-

 

He gets maybe a third of a second to see a figure – clumps of snow clinging to her camouflaged frame – rising from the ground, a third of a second to stare down the barrel of a gun, to spot the twitch of a finger, and the gloating triumph on a smirking face, and then – without warning – he’s shoved off his feet just as the double crack of two guns going off at almost the exact same time echoes through the air.

 

For a moment, Peter has no idea what’s happened. Well, he does, actually, if only because – sprawled there halfway on his back and sinking deeper into the snow but still _alive_ – only one thing _could_ have happened, but the very idea makes his brain stall and his breath freeze in his lungs.

 

And then a choked off cry of pain reaches his ears, and everything jolts back into real time, and Peter lunges forward just as Stiles collapses, catching him as the boy gasps out swearwords while the front of his coat darkens with blood, and the gun in his hands slips out of his fingers.

 

Peter stares down numbly at the tiny hole in the jacket where the bullet entered and tore into Stiles’ cringing body, and a copper tang laced with the acid of wolfsbane fills his nostrils. He doesn't even hear the woman curse from whatever wound Stiles managed to inflict on her in return before a red haze descends over his eyes, and that’s all he knows for the next innumerable while.

 

When Peter manages to claw back some semblance of sanity again, the female hunter is a messy smear of cloth and organs and shattered bone on the ground, a jarring contrast against the white of the world. The woman is unrecognizable.

 

It takes a disorienting couple of seconds for Peter’s head to clear, and then he’s bolting back to Stiles’ unconscious form. There’s gore on his hands, though a bit of snow takes care of that, and then he’s tearing apart the zipper of the boy’s jacket, and fumbling – _him, fumbling!_ – for a pulse with one hand while his other claps over the injured area to stem the blood flow, even if only a little.

 

It’s there, thready but still beating, and that’s all Peter cares about. He shucks off his own (blood-splattered) coat and bundles Stiles up with it as carefully as he can, ensuring that a good portion of it is drawn over the injury. He spares a brief moment to curse the storm that’s still howling around them, and then he changes his mind when he realizes that the subzero temperature is actually preventing Stiles from losing blood that much faster.

 

Eyelashes flutter against too pale skin, and a glimmer of pain-dazed amber slits open.

 

“You _stupid_ boy,” Peter snarls before he can stop himself even as he gathers Stiles into his arms and rises to his feet again, gritting his teeth against the hurt noise that Stiles makes at the back of his throat. “Why did you do that? You don’t have werewolf healing!”

 

“...Wol’sbane,” Stiles reminds him in a faint murmur. “Woulda killed you... fas’er than it’d... kill me.”

 

“Gunpowder,” Peter counters, scenting the air as he tries to pick up a scent that would lead him back to town because even he’s lost track of which way’s which, and the remains of that last hunter doesn't help. He gets a nose full of frost for his efforts.

 

“Fin’ me a fire,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, and Peter looks down in time to see the boy’s eyes drift shut once more.

 

“Stiles!” Peter barks, jostling him a bit. Stiles doesn't stir.

 

Lips thinning, Peter rummages for his phone next without much hope. Yeah, no signal.

 

He takes a breath. This isn’t good. Even excluding Stiles’ injury, the situation can’t possibly get any worse – they’re stuck in the middle of a snowstorm, lost in the forests surrounding Beacon Hills, and Peter can’t even pick up a trail to follow back into town, never mind producing a doctor or even getting Stiles somewhere warm.

 

At least the hunters are down for the count. Small mercies, though a part of Peter still wants to raise them from the dead and eviscerate them again.

 

But there’s no time to entertain thoughts like that. Right now, they need shelter. _Stiles_ needs shelter.

 

Peter allows himself a minute to dig up one of the hunters – the man who died from Stiles’ headshot – to steal his winter jacket, as well as the small first-aid kit that Peter is fortunate enough to find attached to the hunter’s belt. None of the other hunters are discernible anymore, not even as snow-covered lumps, and Peter doesn't have enough hands to poach from them as well anyway.

 

After that, he sets off in a random direction. He can barely see three feet ahead of himself but he remembers that there should be at least a handful of cliff faces around, which will hopefully mean a cave of some sort. If he keeps walking, he should stumble on one sooner or later.

 

Preferably sooner. Stiles is limp in his arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In Peter’s opinion, it takes him far too long to find a rock shelter, but at least he finds one, the entrance only half-buried in snow, and the interior just big enough for two people to move around in. The ceiling’s annoyingly low so Peter has to keep his head ducked, but overall, the cave is uninhabited, mostly dry, and it provides cover from the blizzard. It’s still cold as hell but Peter’s a werewolf, and at least Stiles didn't fall into a lake or something.

 

Peter is quick to get down to business, peeling Stiles’ layers of clothing aside to take a look at the injury. There’s no exit wound so the bullet must still be inside, not to mention while wolfsbane isn’t instantly lethal to humans, it’s not exactly harmless either. The wound is still leaking blood, spilling a worrying amount of crimson across mole-dotted skin, but Peter has no intention of attempting to dig the bullet out either. He’s no doctor so all he can really do here is staunch the bleeding, keep Stiles warm, wait out the storm, and then get the boy to the hospital post haste.

 

The first-aid kit doesn't hold much, can’t even really be called a first-aid kit, containing only a few rolls of bandages, scissors, a sealed bottle of water, a pack of tissues, a flashlight, and some painkillers. But it’s all Peter has to work with so he makes do, mopping up the blood and binding Stiles’ torso, repeatedly checking his pulse despite the fact that Peter can still hear it thumping in his ears, just a little too slow for his liking as if Stiles’ heart is struggling more and more to maintain its desperate grasp on life.

 

Stiles himself grimaces and even whines and tries to squirm away a few times when Peter aggravates the bullet wound too much in the process of cleaning it, but he never fully wakes. Peter suspects that that’s partly because of the cold, not just the injury.

 

But there’s nothing to start a fire with, not so much as a lighter, and certainly no wood; nevertheless, Peter’s a werewolf, and in spite of the cold, he’s still running at a high enough temperature to provide something of a furnace for Stiles under the combined jackets and even Peter’s sweater piled on top of both of them. It’s only after Peter is grudgingly satisfied with the state of Stiles’ injury – it won’t stop bleeding but at least it isn’t soaking through the bandages within seconds anymore – and he’s curled protectively around the boy at the very back of the cave, leeching some of Stiles’ pain as he keeps one ear on the slightly muffled unrelenting squall outside and the other on Stiles’ heartbeat, that he lets his thoughts become less clinical, or perhaps less practical.

 

Honestly, Peter should've expected this. Stiles has always gone to bat for his friends, and his devotion to Scott – no matter how much he complains – is second to none. Liam for example; Peter’s fairly certain that Stiles doesn't even like Liam – and, when he was still around, Isaac – all that much, but just two weeks ago, Stiles went running back into a nest of vampires with only a lit flare to defend himself to haul the newest wolf out of danger. Of course, Stiles also blistered Liam’s ears with every insult to his intellect known to mankind after they were all safe, but Peter figures the moronic boy deserved at least that much for not listening when Stiles hollered “GET OUT OF RANGE!” loud and clear right before Lydia set off the dynamite, as per the discussed plan.

 

Stiles looks out for the Beacon Hills Pack in his own way, and unbelievably enough, Peter is included in that number. Then again, considering the fact that the two of them are more often than not partnered together for overnight research marathons and border patrols, they’re bound to get close.

 

And Peter’s always liked Stiles, fascinated by the clever, resourceful boy who dared to challenge an Alpha for his prey. That fascination only grew the more Peter got to know him, giving way to a dangerous fondness that he did his level best to suppress at the beginning.

 

He resented it at first, the way Stiles showed up at the loft and everything would instantly seem brighter and more interesting, the way Peter automatically bought Stiles’ morning coffee, and inwardly perked up when Stiles started returning the favour, even the way they bickered and bantered about things that sailed over everybody else’s heads. He hated how anybody could have even that much power over him, unknowingly or not, and it only got worse when Peter found himself actively seeking out Stiles’ company outside of Pack-related matters.

 

But he couldn't stop, discovered that he didn't really want to stop, and after Stiles took his side after that fiasco down in Mexico, after he convinced Scott to let Peter tell his side of the story first, and then even spent the following two weeks on a twenty-four/seven coffee binge to scrounge up hard evidence to back up Peter’s claims of trying (but admittedly ultimately failing, and doesn’t that _chafe_ ) to manipulate Kate in a way that would see her dead but _wouldn’t_ bring the Calaveras down on all the werewolves in Beacon Hills for being too big a threat, well, that was it. Not even Derek stood up for him, and then there was Stiles, exasperating and captivating, and he punched Peter in the face and gave him the cold shoulder for three weeks straight (Peter spent a lot of money on curly fries that month) once he was proven innocent (as innocent as Peter ever gets anyway), and Peter decided then and there that he was never going to let Stiles go.

 

Now he just had to wait for the boy’s eighteenth birthday to pass, and then there would be nothing holding Peter back.

 

Granted, Stiles has to _make_ _it_ to his eighteenth birthday first, which he _would_. Stiles isn’t going to die from one measly bullet courtesy of a Codeless hunter. Peter’s wolf is torn between enacting further revenge and guarding Stiles from further harm, but seeing as the former has already been carried out to the fullest possible extent, all Peter can do is concentrate on the latter.

 

As if on cue, Stiles’ features spasm with discomfort, and the boy whimpers when he shifts and disturbs his injury. Peter drains more of the pain, jaw tightening in response but refusing to withdraw.

 

“Stiles?” Peter lifts himself up slightly for better mobility even as Stiles’ eyes flutter open, glazed and unfocused. He moves again, and muted agony blooms in the lines of his face, but it seems to jolt Stiles back to awareness at the same time.

 

“Pe’er?” Stiles wriggles like he’s trying to get up, only to produce a strangled sound as one of his arms go to wrap around his stomach. “What-?”

 

“You were shot,” Peter reminds him, one hand snaking out to grope for the painkillers and remaining water. “I have painkillers; you can take some.”

 

“’m cold,” He mumbles after downing the pills with a sullen scowl. “Pe’er, ’m cold.”

 

“Sshh, I know,” Peter glances at the mouth of the cave. The snow’s built up again, but even if it didn’t, everything’s a canvas of white anyway. He draws Stiles closer, cradling the boy to his chest. “Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”

 

Stiles’ mouth twitches into a shadow of a smile. “Mus’ be bad if you're bein’ so nice ’bout it.”

 

Peter scoffs in reflex. “Don’t get used to it.” He presses his nose to Stiles’ temple. Counts each thump-thump of Stiles’ heart. “You're going to be fine. And when you're back on your feet, you and I will be having a long chat about why it’s a monumentally foolish idea to jump in front of a gun.”

 

Stiles makes an indignant noise. “Didn’ jump in fron’ o’ a gun,” He protests petulantly. “Jumped in fron’ o’ you.”

 

Peter goes unnaturally still for a few seconds. “...That is an equally foolish thing to do.”

 

“Isn’,” Stiles insists on a tired exhale. One of his hands comes up to tap a finger against Peter’s arm. “C’n stop now. Think the pain’illers’re kickin’ in. ’Sides, you're makin’ me feel dopey.”

 

Peter highly doubts that such low-grade painkillers can do much more than take the edge off the pain Stiles is feeling – Peter’s the one holding most of it at bay right now – but he obliges anyway, leaving his hand flat against Stiles’ back under his shirts but halting the transference. A short break would be welcome, and Peter can always continue later.

 

Stiles falls silent after that. Peter tries to get him to talk now and then, just to keep him awake for a bit longer, but Stiles only hums noncommittally a few times before eventually nodding off again into uneasy slumber.

 

The wind howls like a pack of hellhounds. The storm rages on. Peter loses track of time, and in between constantly checking Stiles’ bandages and changing them when he absolutely needs to ( _Stiles is losing too much blood_ ), he dozes off on occasion, never going under very far as part of his brain stays alert for any kind of threat.

 

It’s during one of his catnaps that it happens. Stiles coughs, and the sound instantly jerks Peter to full consciousness once again, as it did the last couple times Stiles dissolved into a fleeting coughing fit. Except this time, as Stiles folds in on himself in a vain attempt to stop the convulsions wracking his whole body, his eyes also flicker open, and one of his hands come up to cover his mouth even as he rolls onto his side and jams an elbow under himself.

 

“Stiles-” Anything Peter was planning to say withers on his tongue when Stiles finally gets his coughing under control and lowers a trembling hand, only for both of them to realize that it’s a short-lived relief when they catch sight of the dark liquid staining Stiles’ palm, visible even with only the meagre light reflecting off the snow at the mouth of their makeshift shelter.

 

Peter’s heart stutters in his chest, and for a long panicked moment, fear lodges itself behind his ribcage like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off.

 

He loathes fear. It’s like poison, inhibiting reason and replacing it with emotion that rushes in like a tidal wave, utterly merciless as it conquers everything in its path.

 

And then Stiles turns to look at him with something a lot like fear, and Peter digs his claws into his own thigh to wrangle at least a thin veneer of control back.

 

“Peter, I don’t think I’m-” Stiles starts, words clipped with dread. Peter cuts him off, switching on the flashlight before grabbing a few tissues to wipe the blood away.

 

“You’ll be fine,” He promises once more in a too-calm voice. At this point, he doesn't know who he’s trying to convince more. “A quick trip to the hospital and you’ll be as good as new.”

 

He clasps the back of Stiles’ neck, hastily draining physical pain until the boy’s practically drooping, and Peter’s insides feel like they’ve been electrocuted. That bullet must've nicked something important. Well, _more_ important anyway, and it doesn't help that the damn thing is still in Stiles.

 

The blizzard doesn't look to be dying anytime soon. If Peter could, he would've ripped it apart by now, but nobody stops Mother Nature, not even supernatural creatures.

 

“Tell me about what you plan on doing for Christmas,” Peter suggests as he gently manoeuvres Stiles into nestling against him again. He thinks maybe he should keep the boy awake this time for as long as he can. Who knows what will happen if the internal bleeding gets worse, and Stiles doesn't wake up next time to give Peter some warning.

 

“Christmas?” Stiles yawns, tucking his head under Peter’s chin. “Nothin’.”

 

Peter frowns, absently carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “Why not? Cora’s in town, and even Derek is spending part of it with his latest hopefully not psychotic girlfriend.”

 

Stiles snuffles a feeble chuckle into Peter’s chest. “Braeden’s okay.”

 

Peter will _contemplate_ believing that after maybe ten years or so of nothing happening. Possibly twenty. Considering Derek’s truly abominable track record, Peter thinks he has every right to set such high standards. Or low standards, depending on how you look at it.

 

“Dad an’ I don’ r’lly celebrate Christmas,” Stiles confesses softly. “It was- It was Mom’s fav’rite hol’day, y’know? So... we don’ celebrate it. Dad stays at the station for the week while I get the house. ’s why I didn’ r’lly mind takin’ Scott’s patrol t’day since he was invi’ed to some Christmas Eve dinner thing with Kira’s family, and I had nothin’ be’er to do, so.”

 

He pauses. In the ensuing silence, Peter idly compares Scott with Derek, the two of them always letting their respective dicks do all the thinking; really, the only difference is that Scott’s been lucky enough to not attract the crazies, although Peter did hear that the Argent girl went off the deep end for a while after Gerard sunk his metaphorical claws into her. Frankly, it amazes him that Stiles is still so loyal despite always coming second to a pretty face in Scott’s books time and time again.

 

“What ’bout you?” Stiles prods, prompting Peter out of his thoughts. “What’re you doin’ for Chistmas?”

 

Peter quirks a sardonic smile. “Also nothing. Shocking as it may be, Christmas isn’t a great time for me either.” He mulls over his next words for a moment. “...Christmas was a big thing for my family as well. Lights, tree, decorations of all kinds. And presents; the kids loved presents.” He stops again. “...I used to take my nephews and nieces Christmas shopping. Including Laura and Derek until they deemed themselves too old to be accompanied to the mall. They were all brats though, gushing over everything and running around in every direction. I practically needed four extra pairs of eyes to keep track of them all.”

 

Peter falls silent. This is more of his past before everything went to shit than he’s ever allowed himself to recall out loud. It feels right to let Stiles hear it though. If it’s just Stiles, Peter can let himself remember.

 

“You know those strands of garland that the mall hangs from those chandeliers attached to the ceiling?” He continues. “Cora was in a Disney phase one Christmas, she was still very young, and we were on the third floor, and I turned my back for five seconds to make sure Derek wasn't going to kill himself via death by sneezing after sticking his nose into a set of scented candles on display – stupid boy, honestly – anyway, next thing anybody knows, Cora’s swinging from the garland like some demented monkey three floors above ground level, all because she wanted to prove that girls could be Tarzan too.”

 

Stiles’ shoulders are quivering with repressed laughter by the time Peter finishes, and Peter finds himself grinning wistfully as well. He’d been so irritated back then. Mildly concerned too, but Cora was a werewolf, and if need be, Peter would have vaulted over the railing and caught her on the way down if she fell (which she didn’t), humans watching be damned, so the girl was never in any danger. Besides, the entire situation resolved itself nicely without anyone getting arrested or sent to the hospital, and yet, _he_ was the one who _still_ got in trouble with Talia after that debacle. Really, Cora was his sister’s daughter; if Talia was that worried, she could've taken them out shopping herself.

 

“I c’n jus’ picture your face,” Stiles croaks out, smile a little wobbly but eyes shining with mirth. “It’d be this long-sufferin’ ’spression that screamed ‘WHY ME’ at ev’ryone and ev’rythin’.” His smile fades a little, and he cocks a knowing eye up at Peter. “’m s’rry you don’ have that anymore.”

 

Peter blinks, and then he huffs out a short nostalgic sigh into Stiles’ hair before breathing in the boy’s scent of blood and ice and forests after a thunderstorm. “I’m sorry for the same. Your mother must have made Christmas fun.”

 

Stiles makes a sad sound of acknowledgement, and for a while, they don’t speak again, comfortable in the companionable hush of each other’s presence.

 

“...Could come over,” Stiles eventually offers almost tentatively. His fingers curl weakly into the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “Once this storm blows over an’ I manage to ’scape the hospital o’ course. We could mar’thon Christmas movies.”

 

Peter’s arms tighten briefly around the boy. “I’d like that.”

 

He feels Stiles smile against his collarbone. “Yeah?”

 

“Of course,” Peter casts an eye over his shoulder at the blizzard. “In fact, I’ll even bring the movies to the hospital so you won’t have to go to the trouble of escaping. I could even have a widescreen delivered.”

 

Stiles’ frame shakes with laughter again. “Pre’y sure that’s illegal.”

 

Peter pulls back just far enough to arch an eyebrow at Stiles, who grins a little in response. “Oh yeah, f’rgot who I was talkin’ to.”

 

“Forgot?” Peter drawls, pretending to take offence. “You're lying in the arms of a devilishly handsome, exceptionally intelligent-”

 

“-an’ overwhelmin’ly modest?” Stiles suggests dryly.

 

Peter smirks, and if it’s more relieved than amused, no one needs to know. “-and naturally cunning werewolf, the envy of werewolves everywhere, and you forgot who you were talking to?”

 

“Yup,” Stiles chirps almost brightly, and then rasps out another laugh. Peter’s mouth tips up into an answering smile even as he clutches at Stiles a little more tightly, not liking the shivers that have started running through Stiles’ body.

 

“I’ll simply have to keep reminding you then,” He murmurs quietly. “Can’t have you forgetting me anytime soon. It would be a tragedy.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees drowsily. “After all the work you’ve been puttin’ into gettin’ me to like you, it’d be a was’e if ya don’ get ta date me the mom’nt I turn eighteen...”

 

He trails off, and his breathing evens out for the most part as exhaustion drags him under again. Peter stays frozen for several heartbeats before he chuffs out a sound that’s one part incredulous, one part amused, and every other part immensely pleased.

 

Well, of course Stiles would notice. Even better, he doesn't seem at all opposed to the idea.

 

Peter glances down, and the unbidden smile that spread over his face earlier falters when he sees the distress written all over Stiles’ features even now. With how bad this snowstorm has become, there’s no way the rest of the Pack would be able to track them, and that’s only if they've noticed that Stiles and Peter never made it back from patrol to begin with. Ever the cynic, Peter rather doubts that any of them have, considering they’re all holed up in various homes for Christmas, and Stiles’ own father apparently won’t even be going home until the end of the week.

 

It’s different with a pack not made up of family. Back when all the Hales were still alive, the Hale House had room enough for everyone; even if they had apartments of their own elsewhere, the House was where they gathered more often than not, and after every patrol, someone would report in to Talia _at the Hale House_. Nowadays, unless there’s yet another apocalyptic crisis on their hands, there are times when half of them don’t even see the other half for days on end, and Scott is distracted enough by schoolwork and his girlfriend to not bother with having them check in every time. Peter supposes he should be grateful that he managed to talk the boy into running patrols around Beacon Hills in the first place, though having both Derek _and_ Stiles agreeing with him probably helped a great deal in convincing Scott of the importance of regularly walking the border of their territory.

 

Stiles coughs again but doesn't wake. Peter focuses on ignoring the anxiety sitting like lead in his gut, concentrating instead on wiping the blood trickling from one corner of Stiles’ mouth.

 

He directs another aggravated glower at the mouth of the cave. Stiles needs a hospital, soon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Peter’s standing at the entrance of the cave, peering outside with a critical eye. The blizzard still hasn't had the decency to move on, but the wind is no longer quite as chaotically turbulent, and if he strains his eyesight, he can make out the shapes of snow-laden trees as far as a couple dozen feet away. He’s also fairly certain that he recognizes a few of the landmarks out there, enough that he’s confident that he can find his way back to town.

 

Overall, the conditions aren’t ideal but Peter can’t wait any longer. Stiles hasn't woken again, not even when Peter tried to slap him (as forcibly as he dared, keeping in mind Stiles’ more fragile constitution) back to the land of the living. On top of that, Stiles’ temperature has been dropping even with Peter providing body heat, and the bleeding’s gotten worse again, seeping through the bandages at an even faster rate.

 

Peter doesn't bother putting on even his sweater again, using it to bundle Stiles up along with the other articles of clothing instead. The boy’s so damn pale now that he nearly matches the snow.

 

The cold sinks its teeth into his skin the second he steps outside but Peter ignores it. He’s already survived fire more than once; ice can’t be half as difficult to endure in comparison so he’ll survive it with the same temerity, and Stiles will too.

 

Of course Stiles will too.

 

Peter takes off at his fastest sprint, Stiles cradled securely in his arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The streets are empty of both people and moving vehicles, everybody shut up inside to hide from the storm, which is why Peter has free reign to move at top speed, taking the shortest route to the Beacon Hills hospital even if that means ducking through back alleys and cutting across private property.

 

By the time he reaches the hospital, his clothes are iced over, and even he’s probably on the brink of hypothermia. Within seconds of bursting through the front doors however, Peter is accosted by Melissa as other doctors and nurses converge on Stiles. For a few seconds, Peter almost lashes out at them all, every one of his instincts screaming at him to protect the boy in his arms, but in the end, he still has enough rationality to relinquish his grip on Stiles and transfer him over to more professional care.

 

Melissa’s the one who leads him over to a waiting area and pushes a cup of coffee into his hands before also disappearing into the ER after Stiles, and then all Peter can do is wait. Someone – a different nurse – timidly sidles up to him with an armful of blankets and some clean nondescript clothes, and then scurries away when Peter pins her with a frigid, possibly murderous glare. At the back of his mind, he wonders if Melissa warned her colleagues about his currently mercurial temper, and then he looks down at himself and realizes that there are still patches of washed out red here and there on his clothes that can’t _all_ be from Stiles.

 

Peter idly wonders why the police haven’t been called.

 

He drapes one of the blankets over his shoulders but doesn't go and change. What if something happens while he’s gone? Every one of his senses is tuned to the listless heartbeat in the ER. Everything else becomes background noise.

 

“-ter. Peter. Peter!”

 

Peter almost jolts out of his seat, and it’s lucky that the Sheriff is in the know because he drops his fangs and snarls before he can stop himself. Stiles’ father – worried stress lines creasing his face – only holds up his hands in a placating manner before taking a seat two chairs away. He’s wielding a cup of coffee as well.

 

“You saved my boy,” Stilinski says, and there’s genuine gratitude there.

 

Peter gets his transformation under control. He turns his gaze back to the ER doors. “He saved me first.” Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Stilinski frowning in confusion, and he clarifies in a low voice, “There were hunters. The bullet was meant for me. Stiles pushed me out of the way.”

 

“Ah.” The Sheriff sighs, sounding weary but not outraged. “Sounds like him. Still, you brought him back even in this weather. Scott and the others didn't start looking until about half an hour ago.”

 

Peter feels like killing something with extreme prejudice even though he already expected this. “You people noticed only half an hour ago?”

 

“No, we noticed three hours ago,” Stilinski corrects in a self-deprecating tone. “It’s one in the afternoon on Christmas Day, and three hours ago, Derek dropped by the station to ask whether or not I’ve seen Stiles because you hadn't returned to the loft, and apparently, you usually at least let him know when you've finished a patrol.”

 

Peter actually flicks a glance at the Sheriff. _Derek_ was worried? No, of course he wasn't. His nephew probably though Peter kidnapped Stiles or something equally ridiculous.

 

“Most of the phone lines are down so I went home to check if Stiles had made it back, but obviously, he hadn’t,” Stilinski continues, gulping down some of his coffee. “We contacted the others after that, but this storm was bad enough within town limits; without buildings buffering some of the wind, the woods were impossible to navigate until thirty minutes ago, much less pick up a trail.”

 

Peter’s lip curls with derision. The Pack should've gone anyway, swam through the snow if they had to, skied, snow-shoed, dug a damn tunnel. Peter would have. He isn’t sure how long it took for him to get Stiles to the hospital but he’s certain that it was longer than half an hour. Even in this weather, thirty minutes wouldn't have been enough time to make him feel as cold as he is right now.

 

He looks down, elbows resting on his thighs. The melting snow caking his pants is forming a puddle on the pristine floor. He flexes his fingers. Feeling is gradually coming back to them.

 

“Where are they now?” Peter asks, not particularly interested in the answer, but he would've thought that they’d at least be here by now.

 

“On their way,” Stilinski reveals. “I gave Scott a walkie-talkie so they know Stiles is in the hospital.”

 

Peter snorts but doesn't comment further. He tenses when someone in the ER shouts, _“He’s flatlining!”_

 

And then, just like that, Stiles’ heart stops. The silence that follows it is deafening.

 

“Peter? What’s going on? What happened?”

 

Peter doesn't even realize that he’s shoved himself to his feet until – miraculously – Stiles’ heart starts beating again, and the stench of frantic apprehension in the ER ebbs.

 

“It’s fine,” Peter takes a seat again. His hands are trembling ever so slightly. He feels faintly sick. “Stiles is fine. He’s still alive.”

 

Stilinski nods slowly, and the spike of uncertain terror in his scent recedes. Ignorance is bliss.

 

There’s a scuffle at the entrance of the hospital. Voices all talking over one another, asking about Stiles. And then the Pack is there, far too late to be of any use.

 

“What happened?!” Scott demands, rushing towards Peter. “It was a simple border patrol; what did you do to Stiles-”

 

Peter is three hundred percent not sorry when he sends the True Alpha crashing into the opposite row of plastic chairs before Derek manages to wrestle him back and prevent him from tearing into Scott McCall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ultimately, it’s the Sheriff who quickly but succinctly reiterates the situation to the rest of the Pack. Peter ignores everyone except Derek, who doesn't _let_ Peter ignore him by glowering insistently at him, eyebrows and all, until Peter sneers back and stalks off to the bathroom to change into the clothes Derek brought for him.

 

He hasn't the faintest clue what his nephew’s attempting to pull here.

 

And then all there’s left is more sitting and waiting, or pacing for most of the others. Conversation crops up now and then, but mostly, everyone stays nervously quiet.

 

Even when Peter hears the doctors inside the ER announce a successful surgery, and a tired Melissa appears to give them the good news, he doesn't relax.

 

“You can visit him,” Melissa allows. “But three at a time, and just for a few minutes. I know it’s visiting hours but he needs his rest, so two of you can stay with him but the rest of you can come back tomorrow.”

 

“I’m staying,” Peter immediately asserts, and his smile dares any of them to refuse him. He spares a questioning look for the Sheriff but only because the man is Stiles’ father.

 

Stilinski studies him for a long moment before nodding, waving a hand in the face of Scott’s instant protest. “Peter brought Stiles back,” is all the Sheriff says, and Scott subsides. Stilinski glances at Peter. “Let the others go first then. It’ll take ten minutes tops, and then you can sit with him.”

 

Peter’s lips thin with displeasure but he nods once, stiffly, and then turns and heads for Stiles’ room. He may have to wait ten minutes but he’d like to see anybody try and make him wait anywhere but right outside the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Sheriff brings him food, and even though it’s hospital food, Peter digs in almost ravenously, not realizing how hungry he is until this instant.

 

Stiles is unconscious on the bed, still unnaturally pale and motionless, but his face is free of pain, and his heartbeat is strong. Nevertheless, Peter’s been parked in a chair beside him for going on four hours now.

 

“The storm’s finally passed,” Stilinski tells him, though Peter can hear _and_ see as much through the window. “The werewolves are out tracking down the hunters.”

 

Peter nods curtly around a mouthful of noodles. They must be buried deep in the snow by now, frozen corpses for most of them, gruesome remains for one. The only thing Peter regrets about it is that he didn't have time to prolong their road to death.

 

The Sheriff’s still watching him. It isn’t blatant, but it isn’t particularly subtle either.

 

Peter abruptly lowers his bowl and stares back, unperturbed but mildly curious. “Why did you let me stay? Last time we interacted for more than five minutes, I seem to recall one of us pointing a gun at the other, and it certainly wasn't me.”

 

The Sheriff’s eyebrows rise. He glances at his son before meeting Peter’s gaze again. “Stiles may have spoken to me about that,” He divulges eventually. “He thought I was a bit... hasty in casting judgement. Then there was the Mexican standoff.” He gives Peter a measured look. “Stiles barely slept five hours during those two weeks he spent proving your innocence. Apparently, he honestly believed you were more than just a manipulative sociopath with only power and revenge on your agenda even back then.”

 

This makes Peter avert his eyes for a moment. It still surprises him these days – the faith Stiles has had in him for what appears to be months now. The weight of that trust is somehow both a heavy burden on his shoulders and a nauseatingly warm glow in his chest.

 

“Besides,” Stilinski continues with a dry expression. “You really think I haven’t made the connection, what with Stiles ducking out more days than not to ‘go have lunch with a friend’ or ‘do extra research with a friend’ or ‘watch Catching Fire because my friend stole awesome tickets from innocent civilians and made them cry’? The last of which I hope you didn't really do but wouldn't put past you.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes in reply. He didn’t steal them from anyone. He may have bribed someone, possibly threatened a hardcore fan, and the latter may have cried a little (a lot), but he didn’t _steal_ them. Stealing is wrong, and Stiles frowns on it when it isn’t for a life-or-death situation.

 

“He’s happier these days,” The Sheriff confesses with only the tiniest hint of reluctance. “And seeing as he no longer spends nearly as much time with Scott as he used to, and far more time with you, I guess I have to attribute that change to you.”

 

The man’s expression hardens. “I’m not blind; I can see what’s going on. I can’t say I’m completely okay with it, but it’s Stiles’ life, and for reasons I’m still trying to work out, you actually make him happy, so as long as you two keep things platonic until he’s eighteen, I won’t interfere.” His eyes flash with the same ferocity that Stiles’ eyes do when he’s facing down monsters that threaten those he cares about. “But so help me, Hale, if I find out that you're just using him, if you end up hurting him in any possible way, I will _destroy_ you.”

 

Peter believes him. John Stilinski may be human and comparatively weak and still relatively new to the supernatural world, but there’s something about him – perhaps the same something that Stiles possesses in spades – that makes him seem substantially more dangerous than he should be.

 

Peter nods solemnly. He has no intention of ever hurting Stiles, so when it comes down to it, it’s an easy enough promise to make.

 

Infinitely harder is the promise he makes to himself – never let Stiles get hurt by any other factors again. He doubts he’ll be able to keep that one, but at the very least, it’ll be one of his top priorities, right next to keeping Stiles happy. Apparently, Peter’s good at that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter is asleep when Stiles wakes up at last eight hours later but a flash of light rouses him soon enough. He lifts his head from where it was pillowed on his arms on one side of the bed, stretching the kink out of his back as his gaze immediately searches out Stiles, only to find the boy partially propped up and smirking sleepily at him with his phone in one hand.

 

“Couldn’t resist,” Stiles discloses cheekily. “You were kinda adorable, and it’s good blackmail material.”

 

Peter automatically grimaces at being labelled adorable but he can live with it if it’s coming from a finally conscious Stiles. He finds himself lurching upright and then forward, claws digging into the bed sheets as he drinks in the welcome sight before him.

 

In response, Stiles cants his head to one side in eerily wolf-like puzzlement before something in his expression softens. “Hey, I'm okay. You got me to the hospital in time.”

 

Peter remembers when Stiles’ heart stopped, seconds that felt like eternity, and he doesn't even attempt to stop himself when he leans over and scents the boy, one hand sliding up to curl possessively around the back of Stiles’ neck while the other wraps around Stiles’ wrist just to feel the pulse thumping steadily underneath the delicate skin.

 

Stiles drops his phone and clumsily slings his arm around Peter’s back.

 

“You’re such a creeperwolf,” Stiles grumbles when Peter takes the opportunity to rub his face against the boy’s neck, but Stiles only clenches his fingers into Peter’s shirt, and neither of them makes any move to pull apart for a good long while.

 

“Never do that again,” Peter growls once he’s back in his chair again. He doesn't let go of Stiles’ wrist.

 

“I don’t actually like getting shot, you know,” Stiles grouses. He doesn't promise.

 

Peter heaves a resigned sigh. Of course he doesn’t. He never would, about something like this. That, or he’d lie, which may as well count as telling the truth anyway.

 

 

“Besides,” Stiles continues matter-of-factly. “Better it was me than you. Can you imagine what would've happened if _you’d_ been shot? I don’t have an inbuilt furnace or super strength or even a heightened resistance to the cold. We _definitely_ would've died if you’d been shot instead.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air, almost yanking out his IV in his carelessness. “So everything worked out better this way.”

 

Peter gives him the singularly unimpressed look this deduction deserves. “Stiles,” He begins pleasantly. “If you ever do this again, I'm going to leave your ass to freeze, and save myself the trouble of frostbite.”

 

Stiles has the gall to scoff at him. “No you won’t,” He grins, and his expression is a contradicting mix of cockiness and cautious vulnerability. “You like me too much to ever leave me for dead.”

 

Peter internally laments at just how true that statement is. “Perhaps,” He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance if only because – on hindsight – his reputation has taken enough of a beating within the last twenty-four hours. “At the very least, I would be deprived of any form of intelligent conversation should you kick the bucket, so I suppose that’s enough of an incentive for me to make sure you stay alive.”

 

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, glances down at the unyielding grip Peter still has on his wrist, and then rolls his eyes. Tension eases from the line of his shoulders as if Peter just confirmed something for him.

 

“Didn't you promise me Christmas movies?” Stiles enquires out of the blue, abruptly dropping the previous topic.

 

Peter raises an eyebrow, thinking back to their time in the cave. “I did. Are we still doing that?”

 

“’Course we are,” Stiles confirms briskly even as exhaustion starts slinking into his countenance once more. Peter suspects he’ll be out like a light again soon. “It can be our first unofficial official date. We can do it at my place. Remember to bring the popcorn, okay?”

 

Stiles’ eyelids are drooping again but his half-lidded gaze lingers expectantly on Peter.

 

Peter sighs again, fonder this time, and the apprehension that never went away even after Stiles came out of surgery finally dissipates. He brings the boy’s wrist to his lips and brushes a kiss over the hummingbird pulse fluttering there before impulsively lacing their fingers together.

 

“Okay,” Peter promises, smoothing back Stiles’ hair with his other hand. Stiles smiles at him, rare and bright and soft, and Peter never wants him to stop. “I’ll bring the popcorn. And we can take turns choosing the movies.”

 

“Sounds fun,” Stiles mumbles even as Peter lowers the back of the bed so that the boy is lying flat again. Seven breaths later, he falls asleep once more.

 

Peter settles back in his chair. He doesn't let go of Stiles’ hand until the boy wakes up again, and even after that, well, Peter doesn't let go. To be fair though, Stiles doesn't either.

 

**[End]**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> ***Title is a line from the poem “Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost.**


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